


it's all in your mind (this is happening)

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (Kind of?) language barriers, (Some?) changes to the story, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Time Zones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 17:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10598334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Victor Nikiforov's dreamscape is empty when he first gets into it, and he spends the next four years of his life trying to convince himself that he's not disappointed.ORYuuri doesn't believe in soulmates. He's also in far too deep when it comes to Victor Nikiforov, which he supposes isn't so freaky, because he's already expected to fall in love with someone he's never met, except he knows things about Victor, like the fact that he can land a pretty much flawless quad salchow if the need arises.---Soulmate AU - you get your 'dreamscape' at sixteen. You can access it every time you go to sleep, and it's your only form of communication with them. The catch is, you can't elude to your personal life, but as it turns out, you can usually figure it out on your own.





	1. at the kick-off

These are the things that Viktor knows;

1) This is not how things are supposed to unravel.

2) If fate has realised this, then it’s not amending any of its mistakes.

3) His first Grand Prix Final is coming up in three and a half days, and he’s pretty sure Yakov is not going to consider the fact that he might not have a soulmate as a viable excuse as to why he has been sleeping instead of practicing during the run-up.

Victor is sixteen years old when his dreamscape first kicks in; he falls asleep to the sound of snow on his window and his mother singing Russian lullabies from the kitchen across the hall. Christmas day goes by as a frantic amalgamation of overzealous grinning and wrapping paper, and his parents taking excited photos, and when he gets into bed that night, six o’clock has only just gone by. It takes him forty-five minutes to slow his heart rate down enough to fall asleep, and when he does, it’s with a smile.

His parents are the first in his family to be married because of love and not because of family status. It’s like that for most children in Russia his age - when he was still attending school, they had yet to begin handling the subject properly, so what he knows when the day comes is mostly fragments of information from senior students and his mother’s dinner table babbling. It is not uncommon, in fact, to see divorcees get remarried to their soulmates under the new world.

Up until now, Victor hasn’t given it much thought. But the deadline breaks forth from its mediocrity as it draws ever-closer, and by the time he’s turned sixteen the new pair of customised skates and the copy of Pokemon Fire Red under the Christmas-stroke-birthday tree are the least of his worries. His father is stoic when he sends him off to his room that night. It’s the same expression Yakov has when he’s put out onto the ice - like he’s been prepared to the highest tee.

This, however, is apparently not enough preparation for Victor.

There’s that drawing sensation - the one he’s heard about from the fairy tales - all warmth and buzzing and coaxing - and then it’s all over him until he finds himself running full-speed towards the nothing and everything. It’s a sensation of numbness, really. Like what he imagines going over the top of a trench feels like, or seeing God. He has never felt more insignificant, and before he can decide that he’s addicted to the feeling, the blackness around him shatters and then there’s just sky.

It’s beautiful.

And he assumes that’s the way it’s meant to be, because he spends far too long knelt around the pieces of where he used to be just staring. If this is the way his soulmate’s mind works - and this is what it’s supposed to be a reflection of, right? He can’t really structure a thought right now, but he’s pretty sure - then he understands. Like, completely. There’s a chorus of clouds, too, like the ones you see on desktop backgrounds, and birds of paradise streaking colour across it all. Victor is already in love.

And it’s true, because it’s what makes his legs heavy when he gets up, and what drags his fingers up to his heart if only to convince himself that it’s still there. That he’s still there. He has experienced love only once before, and not like this - a girl in middle school with a pretty name - but this is entirely different. Wholesome, somehow. It feels right.

The ground beneath him - if it’s even fit to be called that - is water. He isn’t sinking through it, though, and it’s not clear like he’d imagined it would be. Instead, it’s reflecting what’s above it, and when he does managed to pull himself into straightening up, it supports him. The rim sinks up to the edge of his shoes (he wore his best ones in an effort to impress), but it doesn’t feel wet. The wind ripples through it. Somehow, it’s not as strange as it probably should be.

Victor knows that he’s not going to be able to speak before he opens his mouth. His throat feels constricted - not uncomfortably so, but constricted nonetheless - and while can still feel the words bubbling up, and as a matter of fact he can still feel everything else, as well, whether or not his throat is even there is another matter altogether. When he looks down at himself, he’s blurred out, as if he’s been badly erased, and that’s more disappointment than freaking-out-worthy, because he did his hair for the occasion. He’s entirely certain the slicking spray will never come out of his pillow. He expects that’ll be tomorrow morning’s entertainment.

What he does not expect, though, is the thin line of red that follows his fingertips when he goes to reach up to his head, and it forces him back a couple of steps.

He blinks once; twice; at it, eyes blown wide like suns, and mimics the action again, and this time, it comes more jagged where he’s shivering, but now it’s yellow. He doesn’t realise he’s frozen until the two begin to fade, and then he kickstarts into movement again. His footprints leave indents in the ‘floor’ of the cave that go, too, after a few steps, and those are yellow as well. And when he touches his hand to the _whatever it is that he’s drawing on_ , it’s the same.

With a resounding laugh, he takes off into a sprint, admiring the way the line shifts to green as he does. It takes a while to establish control. Most of what he writes to begin with comes out misshapen and spidery - whether that’s just the way he writes or the way his hands are shaking, he’ll never know - but he eventually manages to write ‘ _привет_ ’ into the air, and it lingers there for a good moment, then whispers away, undeterred. He traces the place where it used to be; looks over for something that he isn't familiar with in the hopes that there they'll be, emblazoned with intrigue like they're supposed to be.

He realises, just like that, that nobody else is here.

He writes the message once more - it shifts from a pale blue to a dark navy colour, but still there's no response. The birds scream into nothingness. Everything suddenly seems a lot emptier, now that he’s standing there really looking at it all. This, invariably, is _not_ how this is meant to go. And it’s the worrying, he suspects, that pulls him out of there; the walls crumble inwards and he’s thrust back out into the world, and the warmth between consciousness and the dreamscape really isn’t so warm, after all.

—

Victor wakes in a cold sweat.

It takes a moment for him to convince himself that he’s not there anymore. The colours are still flashing where they’re absent, and he blinks them away enough to notice that the room is still dark. He glances up at the clock on his wall. One thirty-one in the morning. The wind is howling outside in the place of a blizzard, and there’s a wedge of birthday cake that he forgot to eat sitting on his bedside table, next to the canister of hair grease. His pillow feels sticky and gross under his ear.

It's a minute before his mother sidles through the doorway, baring a shine like the sun and more cake that he isn't going to eat.

“It’s okay,” She giggles, rosy-cheeked. “I woke up around now, too, when I first got in.” Victor has never understood her - not really. She and his father are one in the same in terms of their mood swings; quite often they’ll explode into anger when he’s up at this hour, particularly before competitions, and considering the biggest one of his life is in a couple of days, Victor assumes that’s what should be happening. But she’s got that kind of understanding about her where she really doesn’t understand anything, so he forces a smile.

“I’m sorry if I woke you up, mama.”

“No, Vitya,” She shakes her head, and he feels the guilt that he doesn’t deserve hit his heart. “How was it?”

He tells her about the writings, and the way the sky looks, and the desktop-background-clouds. What he doesn’t tell her is the rest. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to voice that part yet. She laughs - nods along - tells her own stories like they’re drinking mates - and as much as he wants to and doesn’t want to, he does not sleep for the rest of the night.

—

“So they weren't there at all?”

Victor lodges himself further into the booth and glares across at Chris over the top of his coffee. The day comes like wildfire - it’s the morning before the competition and he really, _really_ needs to be practicing right now, but he’s been skiving out on sleep for a couple of nights and he figures it’s the best decision to get some caffeine in him before seeing Yakov so he doesn’t look like he’s about to collapse.

Chris is there for the competition, too, but he’s staying just over the road, so they’ve been meeting up for the past few days when they can. He lives in Switzerland a good amount of the time, otherwise. It’s partially a good thing - this is the kind of stuff he can’t deal with too often.

“Nope.” There’s too much sincerity in his answer, and he knows that, but quite honestly, he’s far too exhausted to even try masking it as a joke, so that’s just how it sits.

“Wow, talk about tardy.” He can tell he's trying to keep it light. It's a regret, because Chris is the one who's been pushing his enthusiasm so hard. Victor does not like being the one to take that away.

It’s the first time since last season that Victor has had the chance to get a good look at Chris. He’s younger - won’t be in the same bracket until another two years have gone by - and better kept, at least at the moment, than he is. He’s got that sticky-eyed fantastical thing about him. He’ll do well in the competitions. He wonders if he’ll have met his soulmate by the time he and Chris are skating on the same ice.

He glances away. Chris notices right there and then.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Their English is thick and full of mistakes, and Victor wonders for a moment if that’s why the American couple to their right is staring at them. Chris has a wild accent, after all. “It might be an age gap, right? That kind of stuff happens all the time.”

And, _yeah_. Now that he thinks about it, it must do. It’s the first time it’s really crossed his mind before. The worrying kind of relents for a second and he sighs, slumping over the table with a whine. Okay, so they’re _definitely_ staring. “But, you know - I really think you should be concerned about how you’re going to tackle this when I’m old enough to beat your ass in the finale.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Victor does well in forgetting his troubles, at least for that moment.

—

“What the _hell_ happened to you?” Victor’s tying his skates when Yakov bursts through the changing room door, and it’s the familiarity that makes the warmth well up in his chest.

“Eloquent as always, I see, coach.” He breezes past in a flurry of long, silver hair (which Yakov has to try very hard not to yank him back into the room by) and steps out onto the ice with an easy laugh. It’s a long shot compared to what he’s actually feeling, but the cold is good against his skin, so he paves a mask onto his face and leaves it at that.

“ _Where_ have you been? Why do you look like you’ve just been hit by a train?”

Victor does not need to turn around to know that Yakov is fuming. He skates out a little further nonetheless. One can never be too careful. “It was a matter of love, my dear Yakov,” His Russian is slurring, and he suspects by the silence that comes that Yakov has only just realised that he’s sixteen now. “Don’t know if you’ve heard of it. I'm quite well-rehearsed - I can explain it to you, if you’d like-“

The flair in his wrist is crushed beneath Yakov’s grip and then he’s sent spinning until he bumps into the wall on the other side. “Twenty-five laps around the rink. Now.” Then he glances back at the rest of his team and nods them into the rink, too. Little Mila stifles a laugh. Yakov buries his face in his hands, elbows up agains the sideboard. He's too short for it. Looks like a chicken wing. “All of you.”

“What? _Coach_ -“

—

“Victor Nikiforov,” Yuuri whispers into his pillow, which is currently shielding him from the hardwood flooring down by the dining area of Yu-Topia as he stares headlong at the TV. Victor is stunning. Gorgeous, actually, if he really wants to venture into the terminology. The music of Victor’s short program makes it all the way through the house to the onsen, and that’s nice, too, but only because it’s him who’s skating to it. He’s won it before it’s even finished. Of course he has.

His mother watches him fondly from the kitchen. Yuuko has been silent beside him for a while, now; he has a sneaking suspicion that she’s been filming his excitement; but that isn’t what he’s focusing on right now. The way Victor moves is incredible, as if he’s unfurling into space. Carving into the air. With a flick of his wrist, the melody stops, and the crowd erupts into flowers and applause and praise, and Yuuri has never been more captivated in his life.

“Someday, I want to skate on the same ice as you.”


	2. these are the days

Another two years slug by, and Victor is still alone.

He gets Makkachin when he moves out because he doesn’t really know how to be completely on his own, and he assumes that he’ll have to figure it out with her by his side, and for a while that’s all he needs. Other kids his age are halfway through uni when he relocates into central Moscow - he sees them outside the campus of the college near his school on his morning walks, sometimes, and he wonders what it would be like to live like that.

To live normally.

And, if he's frank, he doesn’t really realise how un-normal his life is until he hits eighteen. Victor Nikiforov is still a teenager and is already top of the charts in terms of figure skating (and figure skating is enough to set him apart from normal people just on its own) - his name has gone viral at this point. He gets stopped on streets. On his way to the rink, six different women ask him for a photo. And of course he complies, but he has never felt more isolated.

And it’s this - sitting beside Yakov as he’s discussing meal plans with Georgi, and swinging Mila around on the ice, and working eight hours a day - it’s this that really brings him into a whole new category. Skating is a poison in and of itself, without ever meaning to be. It kind of hurts.

Not to mention the fact that his dreams are still empty.

The uncertainty surrounding why his soulmate isn’t there takes more of a toll on him than he’d like to admit. The excitement of arriving in the dreamscape begins to wear itself down after a while, and he sleeps restlessly for a good few months at a time. He’d thrown a tantrum once - just inside the scape, so no one else could see it - but he kind of knows that it’s not going to do him any good no matter how strongly he feels.

He eventually deciphers what the colours represent, and how to access them all - as it turns out, they correlate with how he’s feeling. So far he’s connected yellow with surprise, or awe, occasionally, red with a temper, and blue with worry, and he’s concluded that the pretty green he saw that first time is happiness, because it’s the one that he comes across the least, now.

He’s found out other things, too, purely by his own accord. Like the fact that the sky that’s always there, blue as anything, as it happens, is not actually always there, nor a good thing when it is. Now that he’s on his own and solidifying his skating career, Victor’s usually out of it at midnight as opposed to the seven/eight/nine he used to get to, and when he does it’s a different kind of blue; deep, like crushed blueberries, and without all the other colours. He assumes that the way it was when he first saw it, with all the kinds of birds and the clouds, was just how it is when things are normal. He wonders, then, what his soulmate is seeing.

If he’s seeing.

Nowadays, he hasn’t really got a lot left to do while he’s there. The novelty sort of wears off after a while. The sky is almost always that weird bruised colour when he gets there, so he assumes that talking to Victor is the least of this person’s worries even if he’s there. It’s all kind of free range. He knows how to make the writing stay, now, but any doodles of Makkachin or his programs disappear in an instant.

The only thing there is left to do is draw. So that’s what he does. The colours are inconsistent, but he kind of figures that that won’t really matter if his soulmate isn’t present. It’s all kinds of things - stuff he can see outside the windows (only natural stuff, though, because if he tries to draw his postbox or the gates in his driveway, they disappear) and people that are walking by. He’s ever-waiting. Hoping that one day they’ll respond. The fact that he’s still chasing it disheartens him a little bit.

But he’s coming.

He has to be.

Right?

—

“Do you think Victor’s met his soulmate?”

They’re making pancakes when Phichit first brings it to Yuuri’s mind. The TV is blaring ads during the half time of Rostelecom, but it brings him to a halt where he’s whisking the eggs. It’s not something he’s ever really thought about before. If he’s honest, Yuuri has never really believed in this kind of stuff (though Phichit would beg to differ), but then Victor has always been full of surprises.

“Probably not. I mean, he’s famous the world over. Don’t you think we would have heard about it by now?”

“Maybe,” The Thai teenager peers at him from where he’s rooting through Yuuri’s snack supply. He’s young - still ten years old, but a good friend of his nonetheless. His family moved with him to Detroit, and right now he’s come to Hasetsu to be with him. It’s originally a friendship forced by a family that goes back a little bit, but Phichit has his moments. Yuuri - well, he’s only fourteen. “But maybe it’s, like, supposed to be a secret or something.”

Yuuri’s parents aren’t soulmates. If they hadn't told him before, then it’s quite evident as a stand-alone; they’re known to sleep restlessly, for one, and that should be enough considering they're right next to each other. He gets the whole thing around it - there’s no denying the dreamscapes exist - but he holds no interest in his own, or finding out whether or not he even has one. Besides, he’s fourteen, and absolutely too young to be talking about love.

“Could be,” Truth be told, Yuuri isn’t really listening anymore, because it’s Victor who’s up next, and it’s that strange buzzing sensation that makes him spill half the bowl’s contents into the sink beneath it.

“ _Yuuuuri!_ ” His friend whines. “Now we’re going to have to start all over again!”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll clean it.”

“You’d better.” Mari calls from the pantry. She emerges with a pack of uncooked ramen and several different types of crisps that are out of reach for Yuuri on the high shelf. He reckons it’s a conspiracy against him, but now probably isn’t the best time to present a detailed argument considering his shirt is actually dripping with egg yolk. Vicchan yaps after him on his way to the bathroom to wash it off.

“But seriously- oh, don’t forget the cardamon!” He dumps it in as he turns on the whisk. “Wouldn’t that be cool if he hasn’t yet? Like, he’s chasing after his shattered dreams, or whatever?” He’s strangely-articulated for a ten-year-old. Yuuri offers a hum of uncertainty, ever-mesmerised.

“Yeah,” He trails off. “But I doubt he’s even interested.”

A pause.

“Wait, you put cardamon in your pancakes?”

—

“Victor,” Chris seems to short-circuit for a second. Victor has never seen him so happy. “Victor, he’s incredible.”

The ‘he’ part of the sentence doesn’t surprise him - not really. Chris has always had this fragrant kind of charisma about him that doesn’t, from his experience, elude to him being straight, which seriously makes him wonder about himself sometimes. That, he thinks with an impending sense of dread, might never be a problem. Suddenly, he’s not so worried about his questionable sexual preference anymore.

Oh, shit. Had Chris' birthday passed already?

“Good for you,” His accent is thicker now that it’s being forced from his throat, but the Swede does not seem to notice; only giggles around the mouth of his coffee. He asks himself if this is what it would be like if things had turned out differently. If he had a normal soulmate, who was also sixteen when he was and who liked long walks on the beach and bike rides with the dogs.

In his mind, his soulmate had always had a dog. Getting Makkachin has set that in stone, in a way, because he loves her, and it feels nice to know that he’s loved back.

If this person is on their own, too, then they might have a dog like he does.

“Do you know his name?” Chris gives him a confused stare, then, though he’s been persistently bubbly today, and sets it down on his dining room table, clasping his cat closer to his chest.

“Don’t you know? You can’t write your name down. Or guess at theirs.”

“No, I…” _Still haven’t been able to try that, yet. Because, Christophe, not everyone can be as lucky as you_. That’s what he means to say, but the words die in his throat and he slips his mask back on.

“Yeah, no, I forgot. Sorry.”

He goes to sleep that night and writes his name out one hundred times in a row, and they all flash out of existence before he can finish doing it. Then he cries, because he really doesn’t know what else to do, and because he doesn’t know how to wake up himself up to go find Makkachin, and the cavern is beginning to feel more like swallowing bees than a romantic haven.

—

He’s up all night.

He shouldn’t be - not a few hours before he has to fly to Barcelona for the Grand Prix - but he’ll sleep on the plane. There are far more important issues at hand than exhaustion.

Victor types what he needs into the search bar and clicks the first one he sees. It’s an article; ‘Reasons why they’re missing - a scientific study’. Yes, he knows the internet is not the best resource for this, but his only other options are his parents and Yakov, the former of which doesn’t know about his predicament and the latter he’d rather die before talking to about this. He’s got no other options.

The subheading ‘Mental Health Issues’ scares him. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t got anything wrong up there, and yet then again, he kind of hopes he does just so he has an explanation for all of this. Just so he has a definitive thing he can blame now that it’s beginning to hurt him. He won a silver in the Rostelecom Cup earlier on in the year, and it’s the first time he’s ever been surpassed by someone else in competitive skating tournaments. Or any kind of skating tournament, really.

The other group of paragraphs - crudely labelled ‘Age Gaps’ - is his last hope. The thought of a thirty year age gap crosses his mind but he tramples it out as best he can, and as quickly as he can - he’s heard of it happening before, but not often. It’s the kind of rarity that the school counsellors assure you isn’t your fault. You know those?

So Victor swallows his pride and books in with the doctor.

“There has to be something,” Victor near-shouts, and then he’s crying again. He’s been doing a lot of that lately.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Nikiforov, but your test results came back negative-“ He probably looks insane right now. Like a kid trying to skive off of school. But he doesn’t really care, he’s decided, because this all of a sudden is the only thing that matters.

“There _has_ to be a reason, doctor. Retake the tests, I’ll pay for them- _Please_ -“

“Mr. Nikiforov, I can help you out with whatever’s going on, but you’re going to need to explain this to me first. Our tests are very accurate.” Then Victor storms over to the door, partially because he’s upset and partially because he can taste blood where his throat has gone raw with over-exertion, and also because this is just the polite way of saying they’re not going to waste anything else on him. He’s insane. Clearly. If he’s got any 'mental disability', it’s that.

“Forget it.” He sweeps out of the room just as the dams break, and hides in the second bathroom stall with the broken lock downstairs and cries. Then, when he ventures out, he hands a bewildered young secretary the money as he slips out the door, and sits with his head on the steering wheel until his vision clears up enough to be usable.

“Fucking- forget it.” Victor has never seethed before. It hurts his teeth.

He trains through the night, and ignores Chris’ calls after he quads right through their coffee meeting. That’s maybe what hurts the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello yes thank you for reading you're cool yes ok bye


	3. this is where the river goes

A year later and Victor is defeated.

As much as he won’t like to admit it, it’s true - and he thinks Yakov sees it, too, because he’s beginning to be babied again, and that’s the absolute worst thing anyone can do for him. He’s nineteen years old - not Mila’s age. In fact, he’s pretty sure Mila’s already beginning work on collecting her own music, and she’s - what - ten?

It’s pathetic. Isn’t he supposed to be Olympic level?

“Sorry I’m behind on the choreographing, coach.” Victor shrugs his gym towel over his shoulders and steps aside so that Popovich can get to the ice. He doesn’t miss the glare that he gets sent, but he pays it no mind. He’s not in the mood to be testosterone-y right now. “I’ve been busy. I’ll bring it to you on Tuesday-“

“Don’t bother. I’ve got something lined up for you already, since you’ve been so _busy_.” Yakov is supposed to be biting. That’s what makes him a successful leader. But it’s different, now - not like before. He feels the knife twist in his blood vessels, and Sunday afternoon is the first time he’s ever missed a triple axel. Ever.

He turns over to what he expects to be a glare, but Yakov is an arm's length into some other guy’s short program. This - this is what it is to be alone.

—

“You’re going to be qualifying for the senior bracket, soon, right, Yuuri?”

Yuuri nods, and yet there’s no understanding behind it. Even now, he doesn’t really comprehend where he’s at - he’s in Tokyo with Phichit in an effort to train more, and the world seems to be rocketing by so fast. He’s the only skater his coach has at the moment, and even he’s not liable to compete yet, and Celestino is drinking away his troubles to the sidelines when he leaves the rink that afternoon.

Don’t be a disappointment. That’s all he’s got to do. All he wants.

“So?” Phchit's stuck expecting an answer that he's not going to get. Also, he's a bigger fan of Victor that people give him credit for.

He’s got his routine sorted, though. At the very least, he’s got that. The skating comes on at six every night, and that’s when he’s happiest. It lets his mind cloud over. He doesn’t have to worry. If he’s being honest, the only time he really ever worries is at six in the morning. That’s when Celestino drags them to the rink.

“It’s exciting, I guess.”

“You guess?! Yuuri, you’re going to be on the same ice as _Victor Nikiforov!_ Do you know how cool that is?”

It is kind of cool. Phichit’s got that childlike innocence about him, still, that makes him see the world in a different light despite already having lost it when it comes to himself. It’s probably the move that did it - whether or not it’s a bad thing has yet to be decided. At this rate he’ll be lucky to get home before Christmas.

“Well, you could be there, too, in a couple of years.”

“Yeah, I guess…” His friend scuffs his foot on the carpet, the image of a wide-eyed twelve year old, and Yuuri finds it within himself to laugh at the irony even despite the weighing in his chest. Aside from Phichit, he’s really got no one else here that he can trust. The other competitors won’t have seen him before, so they’re out of the question for at least the next few tourneys considering his level of social awkwardness (if he’s lucky), and the day he approaches  _Victor_ about any of this will likely be the day that he dies. Because Victor isn't Victor, he's _Victor_ , and Yuuri's very much normal-font-Yuuri, whether or not he'd like it to be different. He's been set a place in the universe already.

He’s also got his dreamscape coming up at an alarming rate - it’s October already, and the talk of wrapping paper and sellotape is a little too prominent for him to be comfortable. He isn’t expecting too much, which might be a good thing. He’s sort of used to being disappointed since he’s left home; by his own fault or otherwise. His scores have painted that to a tee. It all sounds like fuss he doesn’t have the time for. He’s a figure skater, not some teenage girl.

If Victor feels the same way, he wouldn’t be surprised.

—

Yakov comes into the changing rooms like a hurricane that afternoon, all bravery and stiff upper lips, but that part has never scared him until now. Because now his coach is brandishing his medical papers - he catches the logo before it gets hidden beneath his cloaked arm - and he’s pretty proud to find himself still there. If he had had it his way, Victor would have run.

“Vitya,” Yakov starts. He knows. And Victor knows he knows from the look on his face. They’ve all got it - even Victor, who’s starting to care more than he’d like to give himself credit for. That weird expression. None of them have ever gotten how to deal with emotion, and least of all him. By the time Yakov reaches him, he’s shifted to the very edge of the bench, and he’s more focused on trying to convince himself that the black framing his vision is normal rather than escaping.

“It wasn’t- I mean-“

“Vitya,” And it’s the most concerned he’s ever heard him. It makes Victor’s stomach churn. He isn’t sure exactly what he’s expecting, at this point. A yelling, maybe. It’s irrational and inconsequential and absolutely out of line, but based on Yakov’s expression, it doesn’t seem that impossible. Paper can be turned into a surprisingly-effective weapon based on the circumstances. He knows from his junior days.

Victor isn’t quite certain what Yakov’s mad about. The fact that he hasn’t been to a doctor other than that visit since he moved out, which is now three years, is bound to be a factor in all of this, but whether or not the old man is willing to venture into that kind of territory genuinely throws him. He’s always been a strange sort of second father now that he’s on his own. Makes sure they eat right. That’s for his reputation, though, and if he places it right, Yakov can get away with a few bludgeons. Skating outfits often aren’t too revealing.

“Do you think there’s something wrong with you?”

“What? _No_ -“ That’s a lie. There has to be. Even Yakov’s been paired off with Lilia (regardless of how well _that’s_ turned out).

And then he pulls Victor to his chest, and he cries until his throat is scratchy. Again - what else is there to do?

—

Victor’s first ever panic attack happens in the rift between eight and nine in the morning sometime towards the end of November, and the evening before the Grand Prix Final.

This time, the black eats up his vision almost entirely. He’s scrambling through cabinet doors trying to find medicine for it that he’s pretty sure he’s never owned - his phone - _something_ \- and then he’s thrown backwards by a sharp pain in his head and everything turns into buzzing. It isn’t like the pull he gets when he goes to the dreamscape. This one’s loud and violent and it hurts like hell, and when Victor blinks all he can see is night. It’s Yakov and it’s medicine and it’s the Final and it’s the fact that he hasn’t spoken to Chris in months and that he’s _still alone_ -

Yakov is the first person that comes to mind. He doesn’t want to find him; knows it’s going to come back to him later; but he’s the only practical choice. His body pushes him towards the landline in the hallway leading up to his door, but he hits the side of the table with his hip and it goes, and then there’s splintering wood and plastic. And silence.

He hears himself crying before he feels it. It’s overwhelming. Makkachin whines and nuzzles into his lap, concerned for her owner. He falls asleep at midday with his head up against the wall and his knee grazed, and when the sky glows into power around him, it’s _The Blue_ again.

God _fucking_ -

What right do they have to be unhappy? They can’t even be bothered to show up. They’re not there - of course they aren’t. He’s half-trudging, half-walking, and the water is turning a deep black around his ankles - like the one that he’s pretty sure will still be in his eyes when he wakes up - towards the edge of the vast enclosure, and when he reaches it, he jackknifes his fist against the wall until it bleeds, then breaks down sobbing. The Grand Prix Final feels like a tonne of iron on his shoulders.

It isn’t fair.

It isn’t _fair_.

 _It isn’t fair_.

‘ _пожелай мне удачи_ ’, he writes it into the air. Wish me luck. It’s a beautiful shade of purple - the cloud in his mind has dissipated by that time, so all that’s left is that condemning and inextricable feeling. Like what he imagines it is to throw yourself off of a building and experience the four seconds of the fall before the impact.

He curls into a ball, after that, and waits until he can see Makka again. That afternoon, he skips training in spite of his better judgement, and Yakov, for once, does not chase after him.

—

Yuuri, among other things, is not a people person.

He’s known this for a long time - it’s actually a miracle that he managed to get Phichit in the bag considering that boy is possibly the most people-y person of them all (Seriously. Does he ever sleep?), yet then maybe that’s the reason why. He doesn’t think he could stop being friends with him if he _tried_.

This, although he’d like to neglect the thought, is why this won’t go as planned. He’s already set out his duvet and his outfit for the night, including slippers and a dress robe, in case it’s cold in there. He steals it from his mother’s bathroom when she’s not looking. Normally, of course, he wouldn’t be caught _dead_ in something like that (in fact, he’s pretty sure it’s judging him itself), but he’s so certain he isn’t going to see anyone there tonight, soulmate or otherwise, that he doesn’t care. It’s for purposes of practicality only.

That’s why he’s sat in front of his bathroom mirror combing back his hair. Practicality.

November 29th goes by in a flood of balloons, cake and all-around diabetic overdoses. Vicchan is allowed into the hot springs (he suspects by accident, though Mari will never admit to it) and he gets a nervous smile and a wave from his mother on his way up to his room that night. He takes down the camera Phichit insists he set up and slips his robe on. For the fleeting moment of anxiousness he gets, he’s glad it smells like her.

He wonders what is soulmate will be like, if he’s even got one. He’s heard of it happening before (and with his luck, he’ll be the first one in his genetic pool to have that). There’s also the fact that he’s already come to terms with how he’s completely, utterly and irrevocably in love with Victor Nikiforov, who, despite having attended some of the youngster competitions because of the other kid - Giacometti - has likely never kept his name in recent memory. He doesn’t blame him. Yuuri tends to forget he exists, sometimes, too.

Sleep comes relatively quickly. Quicker than it should, Yuuri notices as he’s being drawn down through the blackness, then immediately realises that he should probably think about his surroundings now that he’s literally being pulled through his own mind. If he squints, he thinks he can see a path, and he follows that; mostly because that’s the way he’s being led, and because it’s the only force of direction that he can follow. It’s that feeling when your brain stops you from breaking your own fingers, even though you absolutely could.

The second thing that Yuuri Katsuki knows is the he’s doesn’t really know a lot about what should be happening. All he can really figure out is based on what he’s feeling - he isn’t really sure what he’s meant to expect, or if he’s meant to at all. It’s warm to the point where he’s uncomfortable in his gown, but looking down at himself now, he can’t really see anything to shed (is that supposed to be like that, or should he have just worn his glasses?). He isn’t really sure where things start and end.

His parents have never been a great help, for obvious reasons, and his sister Mari isn’t interested in hers. His only info broker is Phichit, who’s exactly four years younger than him and is also way too drugged up on sugar and YouTube videos to construct a valid thought most of the time. Late nights under the sheets watching tutorials doesn’t do a lot for him, either. He guesses he’ll just have to ask whoever’s on the other end.

There’s a sudden breaking - unpleasant, like snapping bones - and Yuuri hits the ground on the other side of the wall with a rather undignified ‘thump’ that echoes out around him. He feels his joints crack in protest. If this damage is lasting, then Celestino will have a few words to say to him when he gets to training tomorrow. The water beneath him is a syrupy blue, but not opaque; it reminds him of acrylic paint.

And then Yuuri looks up, and everything is black.

It isn’t the night kind of black, where there’s still moonlight or starlight or artificial light; this is untarnished, in the truest sense of the word, and fiercely intimidating. He feels more breakable than he has done in a while. Tomorrow seems so far away, suddenly, and he stifles the urge to look towards the exit. There’s still nothing of his body.

It’s lonely.

It’s the most of the word ‘nothing’ he’s known, like nowhere but here can truly use it to describe it. Abysmal. Minute and the largest thing he’s ever seen. All he can see is black. The ceiling might have been two metres from his head, or twenty, or a million, and of course this is how this would turn out. Of course. Because Yuuri Katsuki is not a people person, and if there was a chance in hell that he would have been in the company of another person tonight, then he would have been given a sign by now. Surely.

He turns back towards the wreckage of the wall(?) and beside the mouth of it, there it is, inscribed in maroon-y purple Cyrillic.

Whoever this person is, they have _crap_ handwriting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind the chapter titles. Other than that, hope you enjoyed!


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